Free Kinsey and Me by Sue Grafton Page A

anything?”
    “They didn’t look. Well, one guy came through and poked around some. About five minutes’
     worth.”
    I began to check through the drawers she indicated were his. Nothing remarkable came
     to light. On top of the chest was one of those brass-and-walnut caddies, where Rudd
     apparently kept his watch, keys, loose change. Almost idly, I picked it up. Under
     it there was a folded slip of paper. It was a partially completed appraisal form from
     a gun shop out in Colgate, a township to the north of us. “What’s a Parker?” I said
     when I’d glanced at it. She peered over the slip.
    “Oh. That’s probably the appraisal on the shotgun he got.”
    “The one he was killed with?”
    “Well, I don’t know. They never found the weapon, but the homicide detective said
     they couldn’t run it through ballistics, anyway—or whatever it is they do.”
    “Why’d he have it appraised in the first place?”
    “He was taking it in trade for a big drug debt, and he needed to know if it was worth
     it.”
    “Was this the kid you mentioned before or someone else?”
    “The same one, I think. At first, Rudd intended to turn around and sell the gun, but
     then he found out it was a collector’s item so he decided to keep it. The gun dealer
     called a couple of times after Rudd died, but it was gone by then.”
    “And you told the cops all this stuff?”
    “Sure. They couldn’t have cared less.”
    I doubted that, but I tucked the slip in my pocket anyway. I’d check it out and then
     talk to Dolan in Homicide.

    T HE GUN SHOP was located on a narrow side street in Colgate, just off the main thoroughfare. Colgate
     looks like it’s made up of hardware stores, U-Haul rentals, and plant nurseries—places
     that seem to have half their merchandise outside, surrounded by chain-link fence.
     The gun shop had been set up in someone’s front parlor in a dinky white frame house.
     There were some glass counters filled with gun paraphernalia, but no guns in sight.
    The man who came out of the back room was in his fifties, with a narrow face and graying
     hair, gray eyes made luminous by rimless glasses. He wore a dress shirt with the sleeves
     rolled up and a long gray apron tied around his waist. He had perfect teeth, but when
     he talked I could see the rim of pink where his upper plate was fit, and it spoiled
     the effect. Still, I had to give him credit for a certain level of good looks, maybe
     a seven on a scale of ten. Not bad for a man his age. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He had
     a trace of an accent, Virginia, I thought.
    “Are you Avery Lamb?”
    “That’s right. What can I help you with?”
    “I’m not sure. I’m wondering what you can tell me about this appraisal you did.” I
     handed him the slip.
    He glanced down and then looked up at me. “Where did you get this?”
    “Rudd Osterling’s widow,” I said.
    “She told me she didn’t have the gun.”
    “That’s right.”
    His manner was a combination of confusion and wariness. “What’s your connection to
     the matter?”
    I took out a business card and gave it to him. “She hired me to look into Rudd’s death.
     I thought the shotgun might be relevant since he was killed with one.”
    He shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on. This is the second time it’s disappeared.”
    “Meaning what?”
    “Some woman brought it in to have it appraised back in June. I made an offer on it
     then, but before we could work out a deal, she claimed the gun was stolen.”
    “I take it you had some doubts about that.”
    “Sure I did. I don’t think she ever filed a police report, and I suspect she knew
     damn well who took it but didn’t intend to pursue it. Next thing I knew, this Osterling
     fellow brought the same gun in. It had a beavertail forend and an English grip. There
     was no mistaking it.”
    “Wasn’t that a bit of a coincidence? His bringing the gun in to you?”
    “Not really. I’m one of the few master